Thirty rifles came up at once, and a storm of rounds tore into the helicopter’s fragile frame. Bullets shattered glass, punched through the skin, and ripped into the mechanics of the aircraft. A precise burst destroyed the tail rotor.
The helicopter jerked violently and spun out of control. It twisted in the air and slammed back onto the roof with a terrible crash. The main rotor struck concrete and exploded into fragments.
The wrecked aircraft rolled onto its side. Fuel streamed from a ruptured line. By sheer luck, it did not ignite.
Silence followed, broken only by the ticking of the damaged engine and groans from inside the cabin. The operators advanced carefully, weapons trained.
Warren reached the wreck first and yanked open the bent cabin door. The pilot was unconscious, still strapped in. The Architect, somehow, was alive.
He lay crumpled in the cabin, pinned by a shifted seat. His white suit was now filthy and torn. The case had burst open, and bundles of cash had spilled into the spreading fuel.
The Architect looked up at Warren with eyes full of panic. The arrogance was gone. “Please,” he rasped. “Name your price.”
Warren looked down at him with open contempt. He grabbed the man by the lapels, hauled him out of the wreck, and dropped him onto the concrete. “Your money doesn’t buy anything here,” he said.
Around the fallen crime boss, a ring of armed operators closed in. They said nothing. Below them, in the courtyard and throughout the club, the final clearing operations were wrapping up.
The gunfire had stopped. Now there were only shouted commands and the distant wail of approaching local police and fire units. The main work of the night was done.
But Warren knew this was only the beginning. The Architect was just the top of a much larger structure, one that reached into offices and agencies all over the region. In his safes—and in his head—was enough information to bring down a lot of important people.
The major keyed his radio and called the operations center. “Target secured,” he reported. “Repeat: Architect in custody. Empire is down.” He looked up at the stars. The air felt cleaner now.
“Stone, package him up and get him downstairs in one piece,” Warren said. Stone pulled out a set of plastic cuffs and gave a tired grin. “We’ll take excellent care of him, sir.”
Then Warren walked to the edge of the roof and looked down into the floodlit courtyard. There, by the open iron gates, sat their old, battered bus.
Sam, apparently having delivered the first load of prisoners and come back, stood beside it and looked up at the smoking, ruined mansion. Warren raised a hand. Sam answered with two quick flashes of the bus headlights.
This operation was over. The larger fight was not.
